


I'm the Damage Done (Your Scar of Yesterday)

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Bottom Sam Winchester, Episode Tag, Episode: s14e03 The Scar, Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, M/M, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Season 14 Angst Beard, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: Coda toThe Scar(14x03). It's been weeks, and Sam doesn't have it in him to wait for Dean to sort through this mess himself.





	I'm the Damage Done (Your Scar of Yesterday)

“Pull off at the next exit.”

Sam doesn’t say it very loud, but Dean flinches back to look at him like he’d just shattered one of the car windows. That same feedback-whine–turned-up-to-eleven, overly reactive way he’s been wincing at every one of Sam’s movements and questions the last 24 hours. Twitchy and jittery.

“Excuse me?” his brother asks gruffly, but it’s barely a question at all. Dean doesn’t ease his foot even a fraction off the gas pedal. Probably inches it up, if anything. They’re pushing eighty-five now.

“You haven’t slept in days,” Sam says. “Not really. And neither have I.” It’s true, all of it, but that’s not why he’s bringing this up now. Not after the fucked-up emotional poison his brother had just spit up between them.

_“It’s all on me, man. I said yes. It’s **my** fault.”_

All that talk about drowning and yet Dean’s so desperate to do it again, only in guilt this time. That stupid, ceaseless self-flagellation he always puts himself through; blood welling up from the torn skin in every sense but the literal one. He’d said something about it, years ago. About responsibility and guilt just being part of who he was, but this is _Sam’s_ job, right here—more than any of the other insane shit they go through. To piece his big brother back together after he rends himself apart saving him. The same way he always does.

Sam scrubs a hand over his eyes, swipes away the slight prickling sensation before any tears can fall and make everything worse. Tries to make it look like he’s just tired. “I’m exhausted—”

“So sleep in the car.”

“And you must be too,” he continues without missing a beat, “and I’d rather not have you crash us into a highway sign after I just got you back.”

He tries to inject a bit of humor into the words, but Dean’s shoulders tense up around his ears like all he heard was the affront to his driving ability. Typical. But there’s something so _Dean_ about it too, and Sam’s heart skips a little bit in his chest the same way it has since his brother first stumbled through those dilapidated church doors and tore that odd, old-fashioned cap off his head. The same way it has with every other word out of Dean’s mouth, every shift of thick muscle, every brush of their shoulders since they’ve been reunited.

So he sweetens the pot. “ _Plus_ , the bunker’s crawling with Apocalypse World refugees right now,” he reminds him. “I dunno. I thought it might be nice to hole up in some janky, middle-of-nowhere motel for a night. Peaceful, y’know? Like old times.”

Sam can see it the second his brother gives in. Just from the slight change in the grip of his hands around the steering wheel. Just from the not-quite tension in the corners of his eyes, intermittent flashes of red chasing over his skin from the reflected street outside. “Yeah,” Dean says, hoarse, and it’s reluctant like it’s being dragged through his teeth. “Guess I wouldn’t be able to catch much of a catnap with the whole cast of Hogan’s Heroes tromping around the war room like that.” He tears his eyes away from the road only long enough to toss Sam a quick, sideways glance. “What was that about, by the way? I thought those Apocalypse guys mostly kept to the spare bedrooms.” Dean screws his mouth up to one side. “Or my kitchen,” he adds with a hair more distaste.

Sam lets out a self-deprecating breath through his nose. “I, uh, kinda needed all hands on deck trying to find you,” he admits. “Didn’t want to waste any time traveling to different areas of the bunker.” Sam allows himself a slight shrug, still embarrassed by the immediate and loyal reaction he’d gotten from most of the group. “And then some of the more experienced hunters needed a rendezvous for cases in this world. Hook-ups, information, planning, that sort of thing. Guess it became something like a command center.”

“ _Great_ ,” Dean says, but thankfully, he only sounds mildly annoyed.

And he pulls off at the next exit without a peep.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam gets them a king.

There’s no point in pretending. Not when it’s just them. Mom and New Bobby are still cleaning up Duluth, and Cas and Jack are safe back at the bunker. There’s no one around to impress, no one to lie to, and if Dean tries to pull some macho, ‘I am my own island’ bullshit after all those desperate weeks apart, Sam’s gonna tackle him onto the mattress himself and not let go until his brother finally gives up and holds back.

But Dean doesn’t lodge any complaints at the sight of the bed. He just casts a wary eye over the accommodations of the Star-Lite Inn—mostly a 1950s eyesore of mint green atomic squiggles layered over pale blue wallpaper—and then lets out a harmless sigh like he’d been expecting something along these lines.

Sam counts it as a win.

It’s been a rough few weeks and he’ll take whatever scraps he can get.

He steps fully into the room, only letting out a small wince as he drops his bags onto one of the boomerang-shaped side tables. His spine is still twingeing painfully after the dust-up at the cabin and Sam suddenly, fiercely regrets not packing any painkillers for this hunt.

“How’s your back?” Dean asks from behind him, not even needing to see his face. He strides around Sam, flinging his own duffle onto the floor near the corner of the bed, then turns back to check on him proper. “They get you that bad?”

Sam’s smile is a little tighter and a little more wry than he was planning on. “I wish I could say getting thrown into tables wasn’t a common thing for me,” he jokes. “How about you?”

“I wish I could say getting axe-kicked by vampires wasn’t a common thing for me,” Dean tosses right back at him. Even more wry. There’s a couple of ruddy bruises blooming up along his brother’s jaw—and Sam’s sure he’s got it even worse himself, given their earlier beat-down—but the sight tugs at him in the best, most painful way.

Archangels don’t bruise. They _scar,_ apparently, but they don’t bruise. Not delicate enough to show the damage from a simple punch, all faded purples and reds, swell of heat under the skin. That’s _human_ , right there. Whatever else Dean has been through, right now, he’s here and he’s Sam’s. And that can be enough for tonight.

Sam finally drops the small talk and gets to the meat of why they’re really here. Takes a step closer in to Dean and tries for intent even though seduction’s never really been his strong suit. He doesn’t need it all that often, to be perfectly honest. When they _do_ do this, Dean’s usually on him faster than Sam can bring it up.

But his brother just takes a matching step back this time, nearly trips over the bed trying to get away. “Look, I’m gonna take a shower, okay?” he says, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes despite the tense, fake smile he’s got plastered over the rest of his face. More of a grimace, really. “Who knew being a rent-a-tux for some feathery dick took so much out of you, huh?” Dean tries with a shade of a laugh, a wince-worthy attempt at a joke. “Plus we gotta check in with Cas and the kid. See if that girl’s doing alright.” He rubs a casual hand over the lower half of his face and glances around for his phone. “I’m fine, really, so you should probably try and saw a few logs if you’re that tired. I can check the net for another hunt. See if we can get a lead on Michael.” Dean shifts gears quick as all get-out, actually making it a couple of steps toward the laptop bag before Sam can mentally catch up through all the rambling.

He might actually be offended by the brush-off if he didn’t know exactly what this was. Hell, it’s even more frustrating _because_ of how familiar it is. Not-Kaia had been right on the money. This is exactly how Dean always acts whenever he’s scared. Bone-deep scared. The same exact way he’d done before Hell—the first time. All those long years ago. Stoic, and yet somehow manic at the same time. Scrambling for a foothold over shifting, unsteady earth, and Sam had been scrambling right alongside him. The both of them so young and terrified and wildly in love, staring over the edge of that new cliff together, so fucking scared to jump. Sam had been the one holding them back, then—at first, anyways. Setting up a series of slapdash boundaries out of some misguided attempt to manage the guilt and the fear. Like he’d needed to tear away Dean’s façade before they could actually get down to the sex. As if that would’ve made what they’d done together any less twisted. Any less wrong.

Sam won’t make that mistake again. They’d wasted so much time.

“No, dude. C’mon.” He makes it all the way around a stubbornly focused Dean, crams up against the far wall and hunches his neck down to try and catch his brother’s eyes. “That can wait,” Sam says. “ _All_ of it can wait.” He reaches out to brush a hand over Dean’s shoulder. Then he gets a little bolder, fingers traveling over his coat collar and up the back of his neck when he doesn’t immediately shove him away. “Just chill for a second, man. Be with me.”

“That an order, _Chief?”_ Dean snarks at him, and it’s clearly a joke, but it’s also too sharp. Too bitter. Too grounded in everything he’d been through while they were apart.

“Don’t do that,” Sam lets out on a breath. All the fight goes out of him in an instant and he drops his arm, slumping back against the obnoxious wallpaper. He feels all of twenty-four again. Tired and scared and facing down an eternity of losing his brother. “Please,” he begs quietly. “That Michael shit? Don’t turn it on me. Don’t do that to us.”

Dean tenses up like he’s been struck, and then a series of slideshow emotions flash across his face in quick succession. Sorrow, exhaustion, anger, an absence of absolutely anything at all… _guilt_. Guilt again. Always guilt. “Sammy—”

“No,” Sam cuts him off immediately, kind but firm. Already knowing where Dean was heading with it. Knew it was only a matter of time, really, after his unexpected, but oh-so-welcomed, moment of vulnerability back in the car. Sam almost wants to celebrate every time his brother eventually lets him in now. Every time Dean lowers his walls enough to trust him with something real. They’ve been on such a good streak lately with each other. Honesty all around. It’s just—Sam doesn’t want to talk about Lucifer right now. Or Gadreel. He doesn’t want to be any part of Dean’s self-castigation over things other monsters have done. Blaming himself for _Michael’s_ sins. For Sam’s failings.

Dean lets out a sigh, then just switches to a slightly different shade of guilt. “Sorry I brushed you off earlier,” he says roughly. “That was kind of a dick move. Been making a lot of those today.”

Sam’s way too tired and sore to argue over how little Dean needs to apologize. Not right now when he’ll happily take anything his brother can give him. Dean could knock his teeth out and Sam would still thank him for it. “Well, I may have been a little harsher than I needed to be, trying to push you into it.” He risks another step forward, silently cheering when Dean doesn’t back away this time. “It’s just, you don’t have to deal with this alone,” he says, frustrated. “You don’t have to deal with _anything_ alone, Dean. That’s what I’m here for.” Sam finally reaches his brother, and he tries not to tear up again when Dean’s the one who initiates contact this time, stretching his arm up to card a gentle hand through his hair. It’s like some small little brother part of him still thinks Dean doesn’t want him enough unless he’s actually got his hands on him. “You can lean on me,” he says, a little too throaty.

Dean takes it literally on purpose though. Sidestepping the issue with another flimsy joke. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week, tough guy,” he teases softly. “You’d probably faint if I tried.” He trails a thumb down the side of Sam’s face, sweeps over his cheekbone, then grimaces when his fingers trip over the edges of Sam’s new beard. “That or it’s just that scraggly hobo fuzz making you look like some kind of vagrant.”

What a way to break the moment, but Sam’s not really complaining as long as Dean feels okay enough to mock him. “What, you really don’t think I should keep it?” he tosses back without even a hint of sincerity. Sam’s only riding this out as long as Dean will let him, given how rare it is to get under his brother’s skin like this. Jody liking it had just been a bonus.

He expects another Duck Dynasty joke to be honest. Or something even less flattering, ZZ Top or Grizzly Adams maybe. But Dean looks him straight in the eye and says, “You look like Dad.” That’s it. Frank and surprisingly direct.

 Sam just holds his gaze for a moment, then lets out a hard bark of a laugh that startles even him. It’s not even that funny. But it’s the exact same complaint that he lobs at Dean every time his brother tries to grow one. Nips it in the bud real fucking quick.

Dean flinches back at his laughter, not expecting it either, but he eventually huffs out a quiet scoff of amusement as well. “Yeah, yeah, shoe’s on the other foot,” he says. “Doesn’t feel so good now, does it?”

Sam wants to kiss him. Sam wants to wrap himself around his brother and never let go, so instead, he turns around and heads in the opposite direction. Bends over, yanks at the zipper of his backpack, and starts shuffling through the contents.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asks in sheer confusion, left high and dry behind him.

Sam finally finds what he was looking for and pushes himself back upright, his spine complaining again and summarily ignored. He spins around to hold out his prize. His electric razor, all charged up and ready to go, nestled in the palm of his hand. “You wanna do something about it?” Sam taunts. “Then do something about it.”

It takes a moment for the realization to sink in, but Dean lets an actual smile tug at his lips as he strides forward to snatch the shaver from his hand. Quick, like he’s afraid Sam will change his mind. “Alright, Cast Away,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and vaguely tossing it in the direction of the glossy white dining table. “Let’s see if we can get you looking a little more civilized.” He flips the body of the razor in his own palm, showboating, then drops down onto the bed and pats a hand against his thigh. “C’mere,” he says fondly.

Sam strips off his own coat and steps to obey like he’s been trained for it, kneeling down and slipping his body between the wide vee of Dean’s legs.

They should probably do this over the sink. He’s gonna get hair all over their only bed.

Dean leans forward and clicks the thing on, low buzz filling up the dated pastel room, but all Sam can think about is the warmth bleeding through Dean’s jeans. His muscular thighs framing either side of Sam’s hips. He takes a second just for himself and drops his head onto the curve of his shoulder. Lets himself breathe the way he hasn’t in almost a month, drowning alongside his brother even if they were half a country apart. Sam belatedly realizes that he hasn’t actually felt alive, felt _real_ until this very moment. With Dean surrounding him the way they’re supposed to be.

“Can’t get rid of that thing if I can’t see it, tiger,” Dean chides him lightly. Then he lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “That your strategy to get out of this?”

 Sam twists around until his face is buried in Dean’s neck, and then he playfully scrapes his chin against the sensitive skin just to be a dick.

“Fucking quit it, Sam,” his brother snaps, shoving at him, but he’s not actually mad. Dean reaches a hand up to swipe over his own throat, reddening already, and Sam can’t hold back the smug satisfaction at the sight of it. But Dean gets his fingers vise-locked around Sam’s jaw in the next second, swipes the razor over a strip of his right cheek before he can even think of slipping away. “Ha,” he mutters to himself, and Sam doesn’t have it in him to be disappointed.

It’s a rough job, messy and uneven, but he accepts his defeat, gratefully submitting to the rest of the shave. Dean starts working in careful, more even strokes now that Sam is behaving. Rhythmic and attentive and probably more soothing than it should be to have his brother’s hands on him like this. Dean even goes over the stripe he’d half-mangled, evening everything out until he’s got the right side of Sam’s face pared down to his usual stubble. Though Sam reaches up to scritch his fingers over his brother’s handiwork just to check.

Dean’s eyes crinkle at his lack of subtlety and he taps the razor against the edge of the nearby end table to clear it. “Looks good, sweetheart,” he assures him, heading back in to neaten up the edges.

Sam’s breath involuntarily hitches in his chest at the endearment and Dean has to quickly pull his hand away not to cut him. Sam gets a hand around his brother’s thigh. An anchor to keep him from shaking to pieces. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Dean pulls in a long inhale, a slow exhale. “C’mon, Sammy,” he says, the nickname reverent in his mouth, like maybe he needs this too. “We’re halfway there.”

He gets the right side completely done, reaches up for one last pass over his cheekbone—and then Dean’s hand suddenly spasms, the hair yanking the wrong way, and Sam hisses at the unexpected pain.

Dean drops the razor to the floor like  _it’s_ the one at fault, horrified light in his too-wide eyes. The blades are still buzzing against the shag carpet, a sick, mealy sound as it eats up the powder blue monstrosity. “Shit. Shit, _shit_ , I’m sorry.” He stabs his thumb into his own mouth then quickly presses it to the broken skin, carefully wiping over the slight sting.

“Dean, it’s fine.”

“It was an accident, I shouldn’t have—”

“Dean, seriously.” Sam gets a grip around his brother’s wrist to try and calm him down. “Seriously, it’s okay.”

But Dean’s fingers must not stop the blood entirely because in the next second he’s leaning forward to press his entire mouth over the nick. Dean’s rough palms holding his face still as he tongues at the cut. Sam’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat and his own fingers lock tight around Dean’s grip on him. He must have acted without thinking, but Sam doesn’t ever want him to move again. Warm. Wet. Close enough that every one of his nerves starts prickling, yearning for even more of his brother.

Dean realizes what he’s doing only a second afterwards, but he doesn’t pull away from where Sam’s clutching at him. He grants him one last self-conscious swipe of his tongue, then shifts back enough to just press his lips to the area. “Sorry,” he says again. So quiet Sam can barely hear it over the buzzing.

He can feel the stuffy, slightly-too-stale air of the motel room on only one half of his jaw. One familiar, well-loved hand pressing warm against his skin, one rasping against the beard he’s still got on the other side.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault. Sam knows what it feels like. Hell, he knows what it feels like maybe more than anyone else on the planet. When an angel leaves. After getting used to that overwhelming surge of agonizing grace. The awkward, clumsy attempts at movement afterwards. Like your arms don’t actually reach the edges of your fingertips. Like there’s not enough of you left to fill up the space. Christ, it’s only been a day. Of course Dean is still adjusting.

“…Maybe you should just finish this on your own, man,” he offers, his tone thick with more of that guilt Sam was trying to get him away from.

Sam doesn’t say a word in response, but he shakes his head. Glances up to meet Dean’s gaze—so different than the cold nothingness Michael had passed him over with—and presses up on his knees until he can tip his forehead against his brother’s. Until they can breathe together.

Dean closes his eyes and swallows. “Seriously, Sam,” he says roughly. “I don’t wanna cut you again.”

“Okay.” Sam reaches down to click off the razor contentedly chewing a hole in the carpet. The silence is worse though, so he gets up to toss the thing in the bathroom sink. Out of sight and mind. They’ll finish the job later. Vanity and morbid curiosity get him glancing at himself in the mirror though, and it’s pretty much exactly what he’d expected. Half of his beard is still there, dark and full, the other half of his reflection boasting the more familiar five o’clock shadow he usually sports. It looks like Sam’s glued a ratty carpet to the left side of his face.

He chuckles at the absurdity and steps back into the room proper, shuts the door behind him and makes a beeline right for his brother.

“Dude, what?” Dean asks flatly, and it almost seems enough to get him back on an even keel. Like he’d actually thought Sam was gonna abandon him just to finish shaving. No. He wants Dean to do it. Even if that means waiting. Even if that means getting some weird fucking looks for a day or two.

Sam can’t be patient any longer for this though. He’s been fantasizing about this moment from the second Dean was torn away from him. His big brother had slayed a dragon. Had managed the impossible to rush to his rescue and kill the Devil himself, Sam’s knight in banged-up, dented-in armor, and he needs to thank him for it. He needs to feel Dean’s skin against his own. “Clothes off,” he orders, then shoves down the rush of relief that follows when Dean complies with barely a blink of hesitation. He’s still raw, and Sam knows that he probably needs this more than his brother does right now, but he’s been slowly dying for weeks. He can be selfish for one night.

Dean gets both of his shirts off and Sam’s still struggling with the snaps of his plaid when he’s distracted by the flash of marred skin, stark and triangular, against his brother’s shoulder. Raised and big and ugly. Part of him now. Sam stops fumbling with his buttons to get on his knees again, ignoring his undone overshirt and tracing careful fingers over his brother’s new scar instead. Dean doesn’t flinch. It’s not like Sam expected it to hurt, not with Michael’s healing factor, but he’d gotten so used to dealing with the Mark of Cain. Having to ghost touches over it to not send pulses of pain flaring through Dean’s veins. He sweeps his hands down lower, rubbing a thumb over the now-blank expanse of Dean’s inner forearm. God, he’d been so relieved when that fucker disappeared.

“This one’s probably permanent,” his brother says, voice more resigned than anything else. “Don’t you think?”

It probably is. “Maybe,” Sam says instead, because they’ve seen weirder shit than vanishing injuries in their crazy lives. Who can say what their bodies will look like a year from now? Or two? Dean once had his entire canvas wiped clean. Nothing to mark the collarbone scar he once got saving a seventeen-year-old Sam from a skinwalker but their memory of it.

Sam leans down to press a kiss to the spot, shoves closer to Dean to let his brother tug the rest of his shirts off until they’re skin on hot, feverish skin. Sam presses his brother back against the pale green comforter with one hand, uneven splotches of yellow-white where it’s been bleach-spotted, and strips his belt from his jeans with the other. Yanks at his button-fly. Paws at Dean like he’d wanted to back in that church.

When he couldn’t because Mary and Bobby were right there, staring at him too, and Sam was too busy reeling after the unsettling announcement that Michael had just up and freaking _left_ , and then they’d spent eleven straight hours in painful, awkward silence on the drive back because Dean was hurting and refused to admit it, and even _Jack_ got a hug before Sam did—and, _god_ , Sam won’t begrudge him for it. He never would. He knows how it feels to have Dean Winchester’s arms wrapped around you, safe and protective and strong as fucking steel. Even if it’s only for a moment. Not to mention that Jack needs all the care he can get right now.

Only—this is _Sam’s_ turn now. This is _their_ turn. And if their alone time ends up following the same pattern of those few, idyllic weeks before Michael showed up, eked-out moments in trashy motels like this might be the only way they can get it for the foreseeable future. Dean’s always been tetchy about them accidentally slipping up in front of others, but it only got worse when their mom and an entire ragtag army of rebels decided to move in. Secret, rushed nights acted out where no one can find them might be their best option at this point. Especially when they’re hiding from more people than they’ve ever had to before, their own home off-limits due to the sheer horde constantly underfoot. Sam huffs out a bitter-sharp sigh. _It’s like having an affair_ —he thinks, a little ruefully. Only, there’s no jilted spouse to come back to. All of Sam’s devotion is aimed—will _always_ be aimed—at the man right here in front of him.

Sam lets his hands drag down the sides of his brother’s torso, grips tight when he gets to his hips. Maybe it’ll be sexy or something, having to sneak around behind so many people’s backs. Though Sam’s never really seen the appeal of that kind of thing. What they do is already forbidden in every decent corner of society anyway. Most of the time, he just wants to be able to kiss Dean in public. Wants to let his brother put an arm around him with someone else, _anyone_ else watching, without that thick cloud of shame billowing up to choke them both.

Dean lets out a ragged breath, the muscles of his abdomen jumping up under his touch, and Sam gets it. How novel it is to feel with your own body again after possession. To be able to just _breathe_.

He digs his short nails into the waistband of Dean’s jeans, trying to slow himself down. He doesn’t want to press too hard, knows Dean is still healing, but his brother is strong.

His brother can take anything.

Sam wrenches his pants down his legs, just far enough that he can get his mouth around Dean’s rising erection. Taste of sharp, wet cotton. A hissed exhale from Dean. Thick and hard and fuck, he’d missed this. The feel of him. He wants Dean inside of him yesterday. _He wishes he was inside of him weeks ago._

His brother’s eyes are dark as coal as he watches Sam manhandle him, the square line of his hips framed above the stark black cut of his underwear. The faint freckles scattered across his face getting lost in his rising flush. Sam’s never seen anything more beautiful, Dean panting and needy and bedroom-eyed. Sam’s never seen anything he wanted more in his whole life.

He tugs at his boxers until he can free his brother’s cock, soaked dark and wet with his own saliva, bunching them down into the denim and immediately burying his face in Dean’s lap. Dean jumps under the assault, mostly surprise at the sudden motion, and Sam takes advantage of it to drag his cheek along the crease of his hip, licking a wide stripe around the base of his dick. God, the taste of him. He wants— _needs_ to make him feel good. Needs to make Dean forget about anyone who isn’t him.

Sam lifts up just enough that he can swallow him down whole. He pushes too hard at first, chokes a little—and then Dean is tugging at his hair, trying to lift him back up but Sam’s not having it. He doesn’t move his brother’s hands though, just blows him harder. Lets the bright sting of pain bite at him every time he bobs his head. Sam takes him all the way down to the base, grinds his chin down to roll over his balls, and Dean’s hands tighten even harder and he lets out a sound like he’s been punched in the stomach. His legs try to spread wider, jerking to a halt just around Sam’s shoulders as they get caught in his pants. As he moves one hand down to press firm against Sam’s chest.

“Wait,” his brother says, breathless. “C’mere, Sammy. Come up here.” He struggles himself up to one elbow, and tugs Sam over him with a shaking hand, and then they’re kissing like he doesn’t even care what a mess is Sam right now. Dean’s mouth soft and full against his own, and Sam makes a pathetic noise he’ll never own up to at the feel of it. Dean swipes his tongue over Sam’s bottom lip, tasting himself. Uses the hand tangled at the back of his head to get him where he wants him, but Sam’s not ready for it to be over yet and the second Dean pulls back far enough, he surges forward to press his own closed-mouth kisses over his brother’s face.

The sharp angle of his jaw. The crinkles at the edges of Dean’s eyes. Sam’s lips and his fingertips know the lines better than his eyes do. The plush swell of his mouth. The hard callouses still tipping his squared fingers even though Sam doubts Michael had much use for getting his hands dirty. Every single aspect of Dean’s body preserved pristine-perfect from the exact moment Michael had taken over. Like he’d been held in stasis. None of the scars of the last few weeks are ever gonna show up on his skin, except for…well. But that’s not even his. It’s _Michael’s_ scar. Marking Dean like he owns him.

He _doesn’t_.

“I need you,” Sam pants out, lips still pressed to the center of his brother’s palm, breathing hot against the skin. “Do you wanna fuck me?” he asks, and his aching dick twitches against his fly at the bluntness of his own question. He wraps a hand around Dean’s to hold him even closer against his newly-shaved cheek. The side Dean likes. “Or not. Anything you want.”

Dean lets out a long, shaky sigh, pulling Sam closer in until he can kiss him again. Chaste this time. “’Course I want to,” he says. Taut smile, but it’s sincere. “Stupid question.”

And Sam’s not about to waste this opportunity, complicated as it is. He’s learned that lesson the hard way too many times. Sam immediately goes for his own jeans at the agreement. Lets Dean deal with untangling himself while he skins out of his own rumpled denim. He’s probably getting all sorts of forest dirt and ancient cabin dust all over himself with the rushed way he’s trying to rip free, but everything else is more important than that right now.

Sam dives back in the second he’s naked, nearly tackles Dean against the bed and yanks one of his brother’s hands up to grab at his ass. Presses him even closer in. Tries to get him inside of him just through sheer force.

“Lube, Sammy,” Dean reminds him, even as he’s groaning and writhing underneath him with every hitch of their hips. “I don’t have any in my bag.”

“Fuck, I don’t even care.”

Dean’s fingers dig into his ass cheek. Hard. “Sam, _Jesus_.” He gets his arms around his back and then heaves him off to the side, Sam bouncing against the mattress with a surprised punch of breath. He hadn’t expected that—being tossed aside, his brother disappearing again—but Dean’s back before he can get too upset about it, leaving a trail of Sam’s rolled-up socks and loose toiletries strewn out behind him from where he’d torn through all his stuff in search of the KY. And when a hard, naked Dean slips underneath him again, slicked fingers reaching back to tease at the rim of his asshole, it’s hard to care about the mess.

Sam spreads his own hands out broad over Dean’s chest, the solid curves of his brother’s pecs heaving under his touch. Steady, pounding heartbeat under sweat-sheened skin. The dark, sun-flared ink of their shared tattoo, the only mark that matters. He’s _Sam’s_. He’s Sam’s and Michael can’t ever have him. Not for long. Not for keeps.

Dean traces his dry hand down the knobs of his spine, _click click click_ , every vertebrae falling into sequence like tumblers in a lock and Sam doesn’t even try not to arch into the touch. Uncaring of how pathetic it makes him look. He plants his forehead into Dean’s pillow, right next to his face, the bedraggled remainder of his beard catching rough against his brother’s shorter stubble. Probably gonna leave a flaming-pink burn all along just one side of his jaw. Another one of Sam’s marks. God, he hopes so—but the thought flies out of his head as Dean curls his thick, calloused fingers inside him, a sure, expert twist of his wrist the way no one else can touch him, and Sam curls too. His back curving up in the middle like a bow as he automatically tries to get closer to Dean than he already is. Impossible. But Dean chuckles at the impatient sound Sam lets slip out and his brother’s weak laugh sounds like music to him. Like it’s all he needs for the rest of his life.

“I’m ready,” Sam whines into the cotton, close enough that Dean could probably hear it from the vibrations if nothing else. “C’mon, already. Just—”

Dean spreads his right hand, scissors his fingers wide. Wet stretch of tight muscle and another tremble of Sam’s spine. “Not yet.”

God, his brother’s gonna fucking kill him. Sam clamps a hand around the base of his own erection, trying to force himself away from the edge every skillful twist of Dean’s fingers is trying to fling him off of. “Then hurry up,” he grinds out, sounding way less in-control than he was trying for, he’s sure.

“Who’s impatient now?” Dean asks under his breath, resentful, but he covers it with another determined thrust of his hand and Sam’s tongue gets tangled behind his teeth before he can contest any of what that Bad Place version of Kaia had said. And even the thought’s gone the second after that, the way Dean scrubs one blunt finger over his prostate until Sam can’t see anything but stars.

He practically pounces on Dean the second he relents to moving on, restless and wild, straddling his hips and lowering himself onto his straining cock like he can’t wait one more minute for them to be connected. _He can’t_. Dean still seems to have his wits about him though, hands restrictive around Sam’s thighs as he forces him to go slower, more carefully so he doesn’t get hurt. Just like always. Sam appreciates the gesture slightly more than he’s annoyed by it—knows he will later, too—because it’s Dean. It’s so, 100% _Dean_ , no Michael at all, and Sam almost wants to cry. His lower back twinges again once he’s fully seated, but he doesn’t care. This is so much more important.

Dean shudders underneath him, his dick nestled up inside Sam like it’s supposed to be. Rubbing hot and rigid over every sensitive part of him and he almost comes right then and there. Like a goddamn virgin.

Thankfully, his brother seems to be just as affected—letting out desperate little half-groans every time Sam clenches down, so at least he’s not the only one who’s gonna embarrass himself tonight.

Sam picks up his hips into a hard, fast rhythm. Brutal and uncompromising. They’ll have so much time to go slow later on. After Sam gets his brother inside him in any and every way that matters. Or vice-versa. Physical, metaphorical, fucking _spiritual_. All of it. He wants to fall asleep with Dean in his mouth. Wants to possess him himself, force them both into one body so that no one can rip them apart ever again. But for now, he’ll take this, Dean gasping underneath him, hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching around his waist. Sam surrenders into every touch as he spears himself deeper and harder on his brother’s cock, rides him until he’ll be too sore to walk tomorrow. It’ll probably ache just to sit in the Impala the last five hours or so back to Lebanon. Uncomfortably shifting around the whole time while Dean tries and fails to hide a self-satisfied smirk over in the driver’s seat.

Sam can’t wait.

“ _Goddamn_ , baby,” Dean pants out. He slides his hands down Sam’s torso, brief squeeze at his hips, then over his legs and back again. Rough drag of his hands leaving clammy-hot contrails against his skin, rubbing the hair in the wrong direction. Sensitive. “Keep fucking—“ He tosses his head back at one particularly vigorous thrust, lets out a moan like it hurts and Sam has to bite at his own lips not to do the same. “Yeah, just like that.”

“Missed you,” Sam hitches out in return, not even caring if it’s a non-sequitur. He rolls his hips again, clenches tighter around Dean’s torso, clenches tighter around his dick. “God, I fucking missed you so much. Every goddamn second.”

And maybe it’s the sound of it that does it, the crack in his voice he couldn’t quite disguise, but Dean launches forward. He snakes his arms around Sam’s waist, firm, heavy swell of his biceps against his sides, and then flips them both over in one seasoned move.

The air gets knocked fully out of Sam’s lungs, his brother’s not inconsiderable weight suddenly pinning him down, but Sam wants Dean any way he can get him and he doesn’t miss a step. He pushes his legs back wide as he can and just hangs on for the ride, his hands locked not around his own thighs, but around Dean’s. Pressing them closer together, slamming his eyes shut and trying to extend himself into every cell of his body so that he doesn’t miss a moment of this. The desperate, almost violent feel of his brother thrusting into him. The taste of his sweat. The smell of his hair.

“Dean,” he breathes out. “ _Dean_ , god.”

When Sam opens his eyes again, it’s to liquid green—not a trace of that horrifying angel blue—and it sends a heady bolt of lust right through him. Gets his dick throbbing against his brother’s belly, blurt of pre-come smearing between them. Dean’s abs tense up at the feel of it, and then he intentionally slows his hips, carefully grazes his knuckles against the shaved side of Sam’s face, gentle and savoring. He does it again on the left, glides along the thicker bristles with a soft smile that belies all of his earlier fuss. Sam smiles right back, can’t think of a single moment in his life when he was ever more grateful than this, and then his brother lets out another laugh.

Only, this one doesn’t sound like music. It sounds miserable. Painful.

“God, I’m so fucking stupid, Sammy,” Dean whispers hoarsely. And Sam’s brow collapses in on itself trying to figure out where this sudden ugliness came from. “I’d do it again,” he says. Quiet. A confession just for him. “Everything Michael’s done, everything he _will_ do, all the people he’s hurting because of me…I’d still do it again. Same fucking choice. Doom everybody all over just to keep you safe for one second longer than them.” Dean drops his head between his shoulders with a wrecked sound. “ _Jesus fucking Christ_.”

“…Dean,” Sam says in response. Useless. It’s the only thing he can think of to say. But it’s _I love you_ and it’s _I need you_ and _you’re the only thing that matters_ all wrapped up in his brother’s name the same way it always is when he says it. It works for a moment. Dean flutters his eyes open again, holds his gaze for longer than Sam thought he would before tearing it away, but he still tears it away. Suffocating under misplaced shame and self-loathing and more of that hateful, never-ending guilt.

What words can Sam possibly say to try and make this better? Dean may be firmly on board the ‘Michael is my fault’ bullet train at the moment, but he did it for _Sam_. And maybe even for Jack too. Just like all of the stupid, dangerous choices he makes in order to keep them together. Reckless, desperate deals with the devil that come back to bite them in the ass every time, but despite everything else, Sam always loves his brother about ten thousand times more than he hates him, and this time he doesn’t hate him at all.

“You were right before,” Sam breathes out. Trying to get Dean’s attention back on him. Trying to get them back in this together. “When you were gone, I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep because I just kept dreaming about losing you, over and over again. Being awake was worse.” He swallows hard. Pushes back the painful echo of loneliness. “I would’ve done _anything_ to know you were okay, Dean. Evil, monstrous kinds of shit.” Sam tries to put as much sincerity into his tone as he possibly can. Needs his brother to know exactly what he means by this. “ _Anything_.”

Dean flicks his eyes away again, but Sam takes it as a win this time. His brother doesn’t have a monopoly on the stupid shit they’ve done for each other. Sam’s killed, tortured, _damned_ just as many innocent people. And Dean knows it.

“I’m never gonna blame you for any of this,” Sam says, reaching up to cradle his brother’s face in his hands. “Do you understand, Dean? _None_ of it. Not ever.”

And then Sam’s flipping them over again, legs locked tight around his waist until Dean’s on his back again with a solid _“umpf”_.

“And nothing you do can change that,” he promises, settling back in position. Shifting his hips until Dean groans. “You’re good, Dean. You’re a goddamn hero. _My_ hero. And you always will be.”

His brother is the one to slam his eyes shut this time, but it’s not out of guilt, and Sam’s heart swells against the inside of his chest at the victory. He starts riding him again, full gallop right out the gate. Races them both to the finish line. It doesn’t take long for Dean to get close, not with the punishing pace Sam’s setting, but he usually doesn’t let himself get off before Sam does—some arbitrary rule Dean decided on the very first time they did this and then stubbornly clung to ever since. Sam usually goes along with it—always willing to lose small, strategic battles in the war against his bullheaded brother becoming even more overbearing—but not this time. Not tonight. Whatever Dean might have to say about it.

“Sam, hey,” he protests, ineffectively smacking a hand against his chest. “Hey, hey, _shit_. Wait.”

But Sam doesn’t listen. He just pumps his hips like a goddamn piston, his own dick slapping wetly against Dean’s stomach as he furiously fucks his brother.

“Dude, seriously, _don’t_ —” But it’s too late. Dean bucks up against him, strangled cry forced from his throat as his abs clench up and he digs his fingers into Sam’s shoulders and he shoots off inside of him, hot and pulsing and wet, and Sam lets out a broken sound of his own at the feel.

“ _Dean_ ,” he moans, fumbling over his chest, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck then sliding back again, trying to tug him closer.

His brother doesn’t sound quite as enthused. “Oh, fuck you, Sammy,” he pants, more grudging defeat than actual anger.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “c’mon, _please_.” He gets a hand around his own dick and pulls, tries to take advantage of the short time Dean will still be hard inside him, but Dean just slaps his hand away in the next second. Replaces it with his own and then curls his fingers in that magic, inimitable way he does until Sam’s nerves catch on fire and then he’s tumbling over that edge right after him.

The orgasm’s good. Sam knows it’s good. It must have been.

But what he remembers is Dean’s arms around him afterwards. His clean hand petting gently through his sweat-tangled hair. The soft beat of his heart underneath Sam’s ear. He’d already pulled out at some point Sam hadn’t caught, and he would probably feel jilted or disappointed or something at missing the best part if _this_ here wasn’t so much better. Everything he’s wanted since Dean had come blazing into that church—the other one, the _first_ one—glowing with borrowed grace like a goddamn mythic figure from legend. Sam had wanted to rip it out of him. Didn’t want Dean to be anything else but this. Human. Safe. His.

He closes his eyes and tightens his embrace where he’s spread out over his brother’s chest. Sam needs to clean himself up, should bring Dean a towel too probably, to be polite, but for once he isn’t complaining about the wet spot or trying to shove him away and he wants this rare moment of connection to last as long as it possibly can.

“You back with the living?” Dean asks, his voice raspy and fucked-out. He sounds smug as shit about his little sex coma, but Sam couldn’t be happier to hear it. Anything to put him in better spirits. Sam shifts himself up onto one elbow until he can look Dean in the eye. Can make sure that everything’s okay for now. “Hey there, sweetheart,” his brother says, and he sounds more like himself than he has all day.

Sam can’t stop the ensuing grin. The cool air on one side of his face reminds him that he must look ridiculous at the moment, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the stupid half-beard or the Apocalypse refugees or even Michael right now. Because it doesn’t matter. Everything’s gonna be okay as long as he and Dean are together. That’s how it’s always been. The steadfast, unflinching motto of Sam’s life.

Dean doesn’t seem to get over the facial hair snafu quite as quickly though. “You gonna show up at the bunker like that?” he asks, playfully scritching his fingers over the worst of it. “Kid’s gonna think you’ve got mange.”

Sam leans into the touch, lets his brother palm the side of his face. “You can fix it tomorrow.”

There’s a longer pause than he thought there would be. “Nah,” Dean says, trying for casual and missing by just a smidge, “I don’t wanna mess up that pretty face.”

The reaction is…unexpected, but it’s okay. Sam can wait as long as Dean needs him to. So he flips them back to teasing instead. “Thought you said no one thought I looked good? Ever?”

“No one but me, I meant,” Dean clarifies way too quickly, like he’d had it waiting in his back pocket this whole time. “It’s a charity-case thing. Like, uh…Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Sam chuckles, dropping his head back into the curve of his brother’s neck, but he’s halfway toward begging him to insult him some more, just so he can hear it in Dean’s own actual inflection. “You know that makes you Catherine Zeta-Jones, right?”

“Damn straight I’m Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

Sam tries not to feel too surprised by his insult backfiring like that. He usually wins their verbal tussles. “Can I at least be Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone?”

Dean stretches his neck back to eyeball him, probably disappointed at Sam’s choice in movie references, then decides to let it go for whatever reason. “Nah,” he teases, dropping a kiss to the top of his head, “you’re old Douglas. Like in Ant-Man or something.”

“Great,” Sam says dryly, but he’s smiling all the same.

Dean makes a valiant effort to let Sam have his afterglow, but old habits clearly start itching at him pretty quick, and then he’s shifting around underneath him like the itching isn’t quite so metaphorical. “Alright, I meant it, dude,” he says. “Get off. I need a shower.”

Sam shifts off immediately, having absolutely no desire to mess with Dean’s autonomy after what he’s just been through, but the thought of them being separated, even for a few minutes, starts yanking at his gut in irrational panic. “You’re gonna come back as soon as you’re done, right?”

“Whatever you say, _Chief_ ,” Dean bites out again, just as sarcastic—but at least he’s smirking this time.

He’s chafed pink all along his right inner thigh and lower abdomen, an uneven patch of beard burn spread tender and raw over the paler skin, and Sam takes a moment to savor the image before Dean catches it in the mirror and starts whining again. He’s got a couple of mild abrasions up along the lower half of his face too.

Sam doesn’t say a word about it, but the proof of his claim makes him feel a little better, even as his brother pads off into the bathroom alone.

And Dean’s clearly feeling a little better too, given the alternating snatches of a couple different Scorpions songs being hummed under his breath. Just loud enough for Sam to make out over the softly crashing water from the showerhead.

He leans back against the comforter and stretches the kinks in his back out, trying to enjoy the rare luxury of a king-sized bed like this. They’re good. It’s okay. This is normal. Dean needs his space right now, especially after all of the Michael stuff. Plus, the shower stall in a motel like this would be way too small for two. Hell, it’s probably a little too small even for just Dean. A session of clingy, desperate, I-missed-you sex is more than good enough for the time being, and he’s got the entire rest of the night to latch onto his complaining older brother and not let go.

Sam only waits through one half-mumbled verse of ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane’ before he’s getting up to join Dean in the shower.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Alice in Chains' "Breath on a Window"


End file.
